


Always "We"

by flecksofpoppy



Series: A Little Faith-verse Companion Pieces [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A Little Faith-verse, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Backstory, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, High School, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, References to Fighting, Reibert - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Reiner grapples with how good Bertolt looks in tight t-shirts and awkward dreams of dancing at junior prom. </p><p>There's some crying in this one.</p><p>A little more high school-era backstory for Reibert set in my 1990s AU "A Little Faith" which can be read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1450693">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always "We"

**Author's Note:**

> At this rate, I'm going to end up writing more side and backstory companion pieces than the main fic is long! O_O;
> 
> Comments make my world go 'round. <3

“Bertl!”

Reiner hurries into the nurse’s office in a panic, looking around wildly.

“He’s fine, Mr. Braun,” says the nurse from her desk. “Can you stay with him for a few minutes? I have to go tell the principal what happened.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, catching sight of Bertolt who’s sitting on one of the cots, staring at the floor with a closed expression.

The nurse exits the office, the door clicking shut behind her, and Reiner goes to sit down next to Bertolt.

“What happened?” he asks fervently. “They called me out of class.”

Bertolt looks away slightly. “It’s nothing. They didn’t have to go _get_ you.”

“The fuck they didn’t,” Reiner growls, and then his breath catches when Bertolt turns his head abruptly to meet Reiner’s eyes.

The entire left side of his face is bruised, his eye swollen shut, with a few nasty looking scrapes on his cheek.

“Bertl...” Reiner says softly in horror.

Bertolt drops his gaze again, but he doesn’t look away at least. There’s a little blood on the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing—one that’s about two years old and has a few holes in it—and Reiner takes the ice pack he’s got gingerly.

“Hold still,” he instructs, and gently brings it up to press it against the swelling. “Close your eyes.”

Bertolt takes a deep breath, but does as instructed. They just sit like that for a few minutes, until finally, Bertolt opens his good eye to look at Reiner.

“Can you—” he starts, flushing with embarrassment. “Can you put this stupid iodine on? I... didn’t want to let her do it.”

Bertolt hates people touching him unnecessarily, and Reiner nods. He sets down the ice pack to drop some onto one of the q-tips that have been left nearby, and holds Bertolt’s chin with his fingers, turning his head slightly to carefully dab it on.

He receives a sharp hiss for his efforts, but Bertolt doesn’t move until it’s done.

“Now,” Reiner says, moving to go retrieve another ice pack from the small medical refrigerator, “what the hell happened?”

“I got into a fight.” 

Reiner turns to look at Bertolt with a raised eyebrow; Bertolt doesn’t get into fights, if only because he’s too quiet to even draw that much attention to himself.

“About?”

“Nothing. It was stupid.”

“Bertl,” Reiner says with a sigh, sitting down next to him again and wrapping the fresh ice pack in a clean cloth, “just tell me what happened.”

Bertolt’s lips tighten into a thin line, but then after a minute, they relax again. Reiner just waits; he knows exactly how long it will take Bertolt to crack, which is about thirty seconds.

Sure enough, thirty seconds and another cold compress later, he’s right.

“You know that asshole?”

“You gotta narrow it down, Bertl. We’re in high school.”

That gets a weak laugh, but he shrugs and takes over holding the ice pack against his eye. “But everyone likes you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Reiner grunts with a dismissive shrug. “But... it’s not like anyone really knows me, either, y’know?”

Bertolt looks thoughtful at that for a moment, and then he slowly nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess that’s kind of true. Well, anyway...” he trails off. “I think he’s actually in your chem class? He’s kind of tall and looks like...”

“...a serial killer in a sweater set?” Reiner finishes for him, grimacing. “Yeah. I hate that kid—he’s an asshole. He’s always giving everyone a hard time.”

“Well,” Bertolt says emotionlessly, and Reiner is immediately observant when he hears the flat tone of voice, “he called me a faggot. And then he hit me.”

_“What?”_

“Yeah,” Bertolt confirms with a shrug. 

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

To his surprise, though, Bertolt immediately recoils and wraps his arms around himself. “You don’t have to protect me, like I'm helpless,” he murmurs defensively.

Reiner blinks in surprise. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, taken off guard. 

Bertolt just stares at him, the remaining clear green eye blinking nervously, and Reiner offers up a plaintive look. 

“I am,” he says suddenly, staring down at his lap, his lips down-turned and all traces of anger replaced with complete and utter lifelessness.

“You’re _what_?” Reiner asks, supremely confused now. 

“I’m a faggot,” he says simply.

“Why would you say that?” Reiner asks quietly; but he knows he’s missing something.

“I’m a fucking _faggot_ ,” Bertolt repeats louder, his voice cracking as he looks up to stare at Reiner. “I mean, I literally am a faggot.”

Reiner's eyes widen. “You mean... you’re, um, gay?”

Bertolt blinks hard, but Reiner knows he’s not going to cry; not yet, anyway.

“That’s what I said,” he answers, and then turns away and huddles slightly into himself. 

“How do you know?” Reiner asks after a moment, still processing this revelation.

“I just know,” Bertolt says softly, not moving to look at Reiner again. “You don’t have to talk to me anymore if you don’t want to.”

Reiner can’t help the way his throat tightens; he feels like he’s going to cry, knowing that Bertolt would ever even consider that a possibility. 

“Shut up,” he says, his voice thick.

That gets Bertolt’s attention, and he turns in surprise to stare at Reiner.

“How could you ever think that?” Reiner asks in a shuddery voice. “You think I’d abandon you over something as stupid as that?”

“I don’t know,” Bertolt whispers, staring downwards. “Who wants to be friends with a faggot?”

“Stop _calling_ yourself that,” Reiner growls, his voice sharp with emotion. “I hate that word, anyway. Just... stop, all right?”

Bertolt continues to look completely taken aback, but he clamps his mouth shut and nods.

“You don’t want to be called that, right?” Reiner asks.

Bertolt shakes his head no, his face contorting. 

“So this douche bag punched you? Because of that?”

“Well,” Bertolt says softly, still not meeting Reiner’s eyes as his fingers tense on the ice pack, “um, he called me a faggot. And then I said, ‘What of it?’ He just kind of stared at me, because I don’t think he was expecting me to just admit it, and then tried to take a swing.”

Reiner just gapes with raised eyebrows, not quite expecting the story to go this way.

“And then,” Bertolt continues to Reiner’s surprise—Bertolt isn’t exactly a verbose storyteller—finally looking up to meet Reiner’s eyes, “he hit me, my face hit the wall, and, uh... I hit him so he’d stop hitting _me_. I don’t remember much after that.”

Reiner cringes. “He’s probably in the hospital.”

Bertolt mirrors the expression; they both know how strong Bertolt is, when he really shows it.

“Well, who cares?” Reiner says after a moment. “You’re not going to get in trouble, because it was self-defense, and he deserved it. What an _asshole_.” There’s a short silence, and Bertolt pulls his sleeve down over his free hand self-consciously. “So, um...” Reiner starts, folding his hands together awkwardly, “how long have you known?”

“A while,” Bertolt says softly.

“And you’ve... um...” Reiner coughs. “You’ve kissed a guy?”

“Yeah.”

For reasons that Reiner can’t even _begin_ to unravel, the answer stings somehow.

“And you liked him?”

“I guess.”

“Well, why’d you kiss him, then?”

“I was curious,” Bertolt says softly. “And... then I knew. I knew before that, but... you know, you hope you’re wrong.”

“Why would you hope that?” Reiner asks quietly. The idea that Bertolt would try to be something he’s not—put himself through that kind of pain—makes Reiner ache.

“Who wants to end up as a fa—” he cuts himself off abruptly, and bites his lip. “Um, I mean... who would _choose_ to be gay?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Reiner answers. “I don’t really think you get to choose. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Bertolt replies softly. Finally, he lifts his gaze hesitantly to meet Reiner’s eyes.

Reiner’s throat tightens all over again when he looks into Bertolt’s one open green eye, the other one swollen shut. Then, suddenly, Bertolt looks panicked.

“It’s not like I have a crush on you or something,” he says hurriedly. “You can still sleep in the same room as me... I mean, you don’t have to, but I’m not a pervert. I mean... um...”

“Bertl,” Reiner says calmly, stopping the frantic tirade, “nothing is different, okay? So you like guys. Big deal—I don’t care. I’m glad you told me.”

Bertolt sighs, and then says in tiny voice, “Okay.”

He jumps as Reiner reaches out to pull his hand out of the shirt sleeve and hold on. “Short of murdering someone,” he says, his voice very serious, “I’ll never, ever leave you. Okay?”

Bertolt takes a shaky breath, but he nods. “All right,” he whispers.

“And even if you did,” Reiner adds, squeezing his hand, “I’d help you hide the body. Actually, if you want to take that fucking asshole down, I’m all for it. If we both just busted into him one day, knocked him over, and then dragged him into the woods, no one would even know what happened.”

Bertolt is laughing a little now. “You’re only half-joking, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” Reiner confirms with a half grin. “Okay,” he says finally, “just hold that on there until the swelling goes down. Does your head hurt?”

“Not really,” Bertolt says softly, “but my eye does.”

“Yeah, no shit. You can’t open it.”

Bertolt gives a little smile at that, and then very timidly, moves closer to Reiner. 

Reiner doesn’t hesitate, and wraps his arm around Bertolt’s shoulders. “Close your eyes and just relax until the nurse gets back,” he says softly, and finally, Bertolt rests his head on Reiner’s shoulder, just like they always have.

= = = 

Reiner sips at the Big Gulp in the drink holder of the car they just picked up, and Bertolt admires the interior.

“It’s pretty nice,” he says, obviously impressed.

“It’s only got twenty thousand miles on it!” Reiner crows. “I didn’t even know I _had_ a grandmother.” He snorts derisively, “Well, not one that would have something fancy like an actual will.” 

Through a series of complex legal processes and confirmation that the old woman who’d passed away was indeed Reiner Braun’s blood relative and maternal grandmother, Reiner has unexpectedly ended up with an almost-brand-new car.

“No more bus passes,” he says, grinning at Bertolt. “No more shitty walks in the rain to the bus stop.”

After stopping at a car wash so that Reiner could go over every inch of the interior with one of the do-it-yourself vacuums, they’d stopped at a gas station to treat themselves to a snack. Bertolt had declined, though, citing that caffeine interrupted his sleep patterns.

That’s all Reiner needed to hear to lay off pestering him about it. They sleep in the same room, and Bertolt’s tossing and turning that makes the bunk above Reiner’s squeak mercilessly has been keeping him up for years.

“Don’t forget to get a parking pass for school,” Bertolt says, idly centering the floor mat under his feet, “or else they’ll think you’re trying to do what everyone does in the parking lot between classes.”

“Fuck?”

Bertolt clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, yeah.”

Reiner snorts dismissively with a shrug, both hands draped lazily over the top of the steering wheel with his arms outstretched. It feels good to pull the well-developed muscles in his arms into a stretch, and he flexes his biceps slightly, feeling free since he’s only wearing a tank-top. 

“Well, it’s not like anyone’s allowed in here except you,” he says, raising and eyebrow to look at Bertolt. “No one is getting in this car unless they’re you, or are impersonating you. So unless you’re planning on putting the moves on me, you know, there’s not much to worry about.”

Bertolt is staring at him with a mortified expression, and Reiner realizes suddenly what he just insinuated. 

“It’s not like I have a crush on you,” Reiner adds quickly, looking away awkwardly and cringing.

“Wait, what?” Bertolt replies, looking baffled.

“Um, nothing,” Reiner says. “That just sounded weird, the way I said it. Although, actually...” he says, trying to put on a sly grin, “ I guess this car would be awesome for making out in, right?”

Bertolt just shoots him a strange look and shrugs.

“Anyway,” Reiner continues with a grin, “thanks for the air freshener. That’s the worst color pink I’ve ever seen, and it’s perfect.”

Bertolt laces his fingers together, staring down into his lap, and gives a sheepish smile. “That’s all the gas station had. I... wrote something on the back.”

Reiner’s eyes widen, and he smiles as he grabs the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror to turn it over. “‘Vroom, vroom... we finally got lucky!’” he reads, laughing. “Yeah, we did.” 

The unexpected inheritance has also come just in time for the end of their junior year of high school; it’s the first stroke of luck Reiner’s ever had.

And, by default extension, also the first stroke of luck Bertolt’s ever had—because, with them, it’s never anything except “we.”

“And, hey,” he says, elbowing Bertolt with a smirk, “this car _would_ be great to get lucky in, eh?”

Bertolt just shoots him a strange look and cocks his head to the side.

The truth is that Reiner doesn’t know why he can’t shut up about sex. He’s never even had sex. In fact, he’s never had any desire to have sex with anyone, because it seems too personal, and makes him feel sick just thinking about it. He’s affable, but he’s got his own issues underneath everything else.

The problem is that he’s starting to realize that his predicament is a little more unusual than he thought. Although, then again, the majority of their classmates could be lying about hooking up with girls behind the bleachers. In fact, that seems pretty likely; but somehow, it still isn’t any consolation to Reiner.

Even Bertolt, who Reiner can usually depend on to be somewhere on the same page with him, isn’t in this situation. Bertolt at least knows who and what he’s attracted to, even though he doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Reiner blinks; Bertolt having a boyfriend has never actually occurred to him until now. Who knows? Maybe Bertolt _does_ have a boyfriend.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly. He knows what he’s about to say is shitty, but he doesn’t know how else to obtain the information without sounding like a creep. “If you, uh, you know, ever get a boyfriend and you want to borrow the car... you can.”

Bertolt looks over to openly stare at Reiner now as if he’s lost his mind.

 _“What?”_ he blurts out, making a face.

Reiner just stares back at him. He’s wearing a moth-eaten blue v-neck sweater that Reiner recognizes as being from at least eighth grade—the reason it’s a little too tight, since Bertolt just keeps growing without any apparent end in sight—and his hair is still a little uneven from the last time he cut it himself. His head is tilted to the side in confusion, and his green eyes are searching Reiner’s face for an explanation.

Reiner feels something suddenly bloom in his chest that he’s never really felt before—or at least, something he’s never allowed himself to fully feel. He’s not even sure how to describe it.

One thing emerges as clear as day, though: Reiner wants to know who Bertolt kissed.

“I don’t know,” he babbles, plastering an awkward grin across his face that he hopes comes off as nonchalant, “you said you kissed someone, so I thought maybe you, uh...”

Bertolt just continues to stare at him.

“I’m just saying that... um, if you want to borrow the car, you can. I mean, I’ll probably end up making out with some girl in here, right?”

Reiner isn’t usually a rambler; but right now, he can’t stop talking. He shuts his mouth abruptly, though, because suddenly, Bertolt looks stricken. 

“Do you think I have a _crush_ on you? Is that why you’re saying all this... stuff?” he gasps in horror. He looks completely mortified and hurt, his eyes wide and his mouth a flat line. He’s even shaking his head a little. “I already told you it’s not like that.”

Reiner scowls at him, and before thinking it through, just blurts out what he’s thinking. 

“Well, why not?” 

Bertolt blinks; Reiner takes in a sharp breath, and then they just stare at each other.

If Reiner was sure he was going to pass out from _that_ revelation, though, then Bertolt leaning over to grip the front of his shirt so tightly it rips and pull Reiner over the armrest to kiss him is enough to stop his heart.

And in response, Reiner does the most incriminating thing he could ever do—which is to cup Bertolt’s face in his hands and kiss back.

He wrenches away just as quickly with a distressed noise, pressing himself tightly against the car door as he fumbles to get it open, and then practically falls out. When he slams it behind him, it makes a deafening echo in the nearly empty parking lot.

Reiner sinks down to the pavement, putting his head between his knees as he tries not to hyperventilate. Bertolt is still in the car, and Reiner doesn’t know what’s worse—the way he feels like he’s going to cry because of what just happened, or the way he feels like he’s going to cry because he left Bertolt alone.

He forces himself to get up after a few moments, put on a straight face, and climb back into the car.

Bertolt doesn’t say a word, staring hard out the passenger side window as Reiner turns the key in the ignition.

“I’m not a fag,” he says as he looks into the rearview mirror to back out, and very pointedly doesn’t look at Bertolt. He feels regret churning in his gut, but it’s not the type of regret he should be feeling if what he just said was actually true. 

“I thought you didn’t like that word,” Bertolt whispers. 

“That’s why I’m only going to say it once,” Reiner replies just as softly, hating himself even as he says it.

They don’t talk about it again.

= = =

“ _Why_ are we doing this?” Bertolt groans as he tries to shrug on a jacket that hasn’t fit him in almost two years. “And when will I stop growing?”

Reiner looks over at him with a grin as he straightens his button-up shirt, looking in the small mirror in their shared room.

“I don’t look too bad, right?” he asks, turning to look at Bertolt.

“That shirt has a stain on it.”

Reiner’s eyes widen. “Where?” he asks in concern.

“On the back,” Bertolt laughs softly, shrugging off the too-small jacket, “on the shoulder. Don’t you remember? You got stuff on it when you were trying to change the oil in your car.”

“Oh, yeah,” Reiner replies, turning back toward the mirror to try to see the spot on the back of his shoulder. “I forgot about that. Well, whatever. The jacket will cover it.”

“Uh, maybe I shouldn’t go,” Bertolt says, starting to blush as Reiner turns to stare at him in surprise. 

“Why not?” Reiner demands, pointing at Bertolt. “We already talked about this. I _know_ you don’t like crowds, but...” he sighs. “C’mon, Bertl, it’s stupid, but it we only get to do it once. And who knows what we’ll even be _doing_ this time next year?”

Bertolt bites his lip nervously and shrugs a little. He knows exactly what Reiner means, since the two of them are due to age out of the system well before their high school graduation the following year.

He sighs and frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he murmurs, looking up at Reiner resentfully. “But what am I going to wear?”

“Here,” Reiner says with a big smile, standing up and rifling around in the closet they share, “just wear one of my jackets.”

“Um,” Bertolt says, laughing a little, “it’s going to look like I’m playing dress-up.”

Bertolt is tall and well-built, but Reiner’s shoulders are much broader.

“Whatever,” Reiner says with a shrug. “Just take it off when we get inside. They have that dumb dress code, but you don’t have to keep wearing it.”

“Okay,” Bertolt agrees. Reiner only has two jackets—the one he’s going to wear, and one for interviews.

“Uh,” he says, cringing, “even this stupid shirt is too small.”

“Wear one of your regular t-shirts,” Reiner says, patting Bertolt on the arm. “You’ll look like a rebel.”

Bertolt starts to laugh and shrugs. “Okay, if you think that’ll fly.” He ends up wearing a local band t-shirt he’d gotten from a show after helping to cater an event, and whose music he'd actually enthusiastically talked about—if only to Reiner—for a few days after the fact. 

Occasionally, Bertolt helps out with that type of thing for a little money here and there—a position that the Home Ec teacher had gotten him at a local restaurant, though Reiner still isn’t clear on the details of that—and he’s hoping it’ll turn into a full-time job eventually.

“This is going to look ridiculous,” he says as he turns away. Reiner very pointedly ignores the way the powerful muscles in Bertolt’s back flex as he pulls the shirt he’s wearing off over his head and moves to put the band t-shirt on. He has a long, lean torso... but it’s not like Reiner’s noticed or anything.

When he turns back around, he’s wearing an awkward, albeit amused, expression.

Reiner smiles at him; the truth is that Bertolt looks halfway ridiculous, and halfway... really good. The thing he doesn’t understand—and, Reiner suspects, probably never will—is that being as tall and lean as he is, he could pretty much wear almost anything and look good.

On the other hand, if Reiner wears the wrong thing—like a fitted band t-shirt—he ends up looking more like a gym rat who replaced his brain with a muscle.

“You look fine,” he says, smiling reassuringly as Bertolt shrugs on the jacket. It is indeed far too large on him, but somehow, it works.

“I guess I should wear a tie, right?”

“I think it’s required.” Reiner himself has donned the same button-up shirt, jacket, and tie that he wears for every special occasion. Thankfully—for both him and his wallet—he stopped growing about a year ago. Poor Bertolt, on the other hand, just seems to keep getting taller. Right now, he’s 6’2”, but given that he’s about to turn seventeen in a matter of weeks, Reiner figures he’ll top out at around 6’4” at the most. 

It’s either that, or start shopping at specialty stores. It’s almost ironic, too, that Bertolt is so tall, given the fact that most of the time, he desperately tries to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Reiner is snapped out of his thoughts as he hears a growl of frustration and looks over to see Bertolt grappling with a tie.

“Uh,” he says, hesitating. There’s something really gay about reaching around to tie it for him, even though that’s Reiner’s first instinct. He very pointedly does _not_ let his mind go there, because he doesn’t want to remember that one horrible afternoon, and he also doesn’t want to give Bertolt the wrong impression... _Whatever the fuck that means_ , Reiner's brain pipes in.

Finally, Bertolt gets the tie into some semblance of order he feels is acceptable (it’s pretty abysmal, but Reiner doesn’t correct him), and they head out in the car.

It’s nothing too exciting, once they arrive. The gym’s been decked out in corny decorations and there are couples getting their picture taken as they pass through the door, posing awkwardly but excitedly with flowers and corsages against a cheesy blue background.

Reiner shoots Bertolt a glance as they pass the picture-taking area, and Bertolt rolls his eyes slightly. That gets a little grin out of Reiner, but he can’t help but sneak a glance back at the entire production.

What settles immediately into the pit of his stomach is that he knows he’ll never be one of those guys, smiling in the photo with some pretty girl he took to prom. And it’s not just because most of his classmates have middle class parents who can buy them nice suits, or that they have pretty girlfriends who want to slow dance and wear corsages. 

It’s not even that Reiner doesn’t like to slow dance. He’s never done it, but he’s not opposed to it; it could be fun. Unlike Bertolt, he doesn’t mind people noticing him.

The bottom line is that Reiner could be dressed up in the nicest suit money could buy, with the most gorgeous girl on the planet, and be a professionally trained dancer...

But all he’d ever want to do is dance with Bertolt, even if his feet got stepped on, as long as they could stay close to each other. Reiner wants to straighten Bertolt’s tie, tell him how good he looks in his hodge-podge of an outfit, and apologize for the horrible shit he said that fateful afternoon. He never wants to be with anyone except Bertolt, in _all_ ways. 

He’s startled out of his thoughts as they finally reach the gym, and Bertolt is tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Hey. Are you all right?” he asks, turning his head to the side with a concerned expression.

“Oh, yeah,” Reiner replies, clearing his throat and adjusting his own perfectly knotted tie, “sorry. It’s kind of stuffy in here.”

Bertolt nods and gives a small, sympathetic smile. “Smells like bad perfume.”

Reiner laughs, and then suddenly they both turn in surprise when someone says Bertolt’s name. 

“Hey, Hoover—cool shirt.”

They both look toward the source of the voice, and Reiner sees a skinny but solidly built kid with a weird haircut and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt; his hands are shoved into his pockets, and he looks like he just swallowed something unpleasant.

“Is he serious?” Bertolt says out of the corner of his mouth to Reiner.

“Yeah,” Reiner replies. “He’s cool. His name is Jean... I don’t know, I had a couple of classes with him.”

Jean makes a face at both of them, shifting his narrow hips and rolling his eyes. “Dude, this music fucking _sucks_. I’m so outta here.”

Reiner just looks at him and shrugs; Bertolt raises his eyebrows.

“Uh, I kind of like the B52s,” Bertolt replies awkwardly.

Jean grins at him. “Hey, man, at least you’re honest. See you in Home Ec.” He turns on his heel and makes his departure.

“Too cool for school,” Bertolt says with raised eyebrows.

“You’re telling me,” Reiner agrees.

They end up sitting in the chairs that have been positioned at the edge of the gym, and chatting about how lame everything is and how it’ll be a relief to finally graduate the following year.

Then, something unexpected happens.

“Reiner?” comes a sweet, quiet voice. 

Reiner looks up in surprise from where he’s laughing with Bertolt.

There stands Christa Lenz—the head of Glee Club and only popular student who actually seems genuinely nice. Reiner isn’t unpopular, but he’s never made enough of a name for himself doing extracurricular activities to make as many friends as he probably could have. That, and the job he got a few months ago has made it impossible to do anything except go to class.

“Hey, Christa,” he says shyly, looking down at the floor and rubbing the back of his head.

He glances over at Bertolt, who’s just watching the exchange with an incredulous expression and wide eyes.

“Do you want to dance?” she asks, smiling a little.

She’s wearing a dress with little spaghetti-straps and a row of daises at the bodice and her blonde hair is flowing down over her shoulders.

She’s _really_ pretty, and everyone wanted to ask her to prom.

“Uh,” Reiner says, shooting a look at Bertolt, “sure.”

Bertolt just shrugs at him and nudges his head toward the dance floor, as if to confirm he’ll wait. 

They go out to the dance floor together, receiving a few looks, and an obnoxiously slow song starts to play.

“So, how long have you guys been together?” she asks quietly, resting her head on Reiner’s shoulder.

“Uh, what?”

“You and Bertolt.”

Reiner coughs in embarrassment and stiffens, and Christa stiffens, too. “Oh my gosh,” she says in a hushed voice, “I’m really sorry. I thought you guys were dating.”

“We’re not,” Reiner says flatly.

“It’s not that I don’t actually think you’re nice,” Christa whispers, “but, honestly, I thought you were gay. Um...”

Reiner isn’t sure whether he should feel mortified or relieved, but he’s not expecting Christa to say softly, “Because... I kind of have a girlfriend.”

“ _You_ have a girlfriend?” Reiner whispers, suddenly feeling like he’s exchanging secrets at summer camp. Not that he’s ever been to summer camp, but he’s seen it in movies.

“Everyone kept asking me to prom,” she whispers, “and I didn’t want to go... um, well, I didn’t want to go with _them_.” Her voice actually sounds troubled, and Reiner feels a pang of sympathy.

“That really sucks,” he says quietly. “Uh, if you don’t mind me asking, who is it? And it’s cool—I’m not gay, but my best friend is.” Before Christa can answer, though, suddenly a few things make sense. “Oh,” he remarks, “uh, Ymir wore a tux.”

“Yeah,” Christa says simply.

“I just thought she was scary.”

Christa laughs softly. “She is sort of scary, when she wants to be.”

“And...” Reiner hazards, “also a lesbian?”

“Um, yeah,” Christa says softly. “And to be honest, I’m probably really hurting her feelings right now, but I couldn’t deal with another stupid guy asking me if I wanted to dance, no matter how many times I say no.” She sighs. “Ymir hates stuff like this, but I _like_ prom.”

“So, you think if everyone else thinks you’re with me for the night, they’ll leave you alone?” Reiner asks, catching on.

Christa sighs heavily. “Yes. Only I didn’t know you were straight—and I’m _really_ sorry, Reiner,” she says, pulling away as the song ends with a mortified look. “I’ve thought you and Bertolt were an item for a long time.”

“It’s okay,” Reiner says with a shrug. And finally, feeling a little braver, knowing Christa’s story, he admits haltingly, “It’s... complicated.”

She gives him a knowing nod.

“You want me to kiss you on the cheek, so everyone fucks off about dancing with you?”

“Sure,” she says with a little smile.

Reiner pecks her on the cheek, and she blushes a little. There are some hoots and hollers, and Reiner just rolls his eyes and mutters something about being a gentleman. 

When he returns to Bertolt and sits back down, he doesn’t look over immediately as he says, “Have I got a story for you later.”

Bertolt doesn’t answer, and just shrugs.

“She’s pretty,” he says after a minute. “Um, I can just take the bus if you want the car... you know, um, for that stuff you said before? Or maybe I can catch a ride with Jean, if he’s not gone yet...”

“What are you talking about?” Reiner asks, looking over at Bertolt in confusion.

Finally, their eyes meet, and Bertolt looks straight at him as he says, spacing out each word as if Reiner’s hard of hearing, “Do you want to hook up with Christa in your car? Do you want me to leave you alone? Do you understand?”

And just as Reiner is about to try and piece together some kind of coherent response—and address the hurt that immediately fills every part of him—an unwelcome presence appears.

“Hey, Hoover,” says a familiar, obnoxious voice, obviously addled with alcohol.

Reiner just watches as Bertolt looks up from where he’s sitting to stare at his arch nemesis. The only reason Bertolt would even have an “arch nemesis” is because this guy has taken it upon himself to harass Bertolt at every turn for no apparent reason.

“Fuckin’ fag... why don’t you get out of here?” he slurs.

Everything seems to slow down as Reiner sees Bertolt tense; the first time Bertolt hit his tormentor at the beginning of the year was self-defense. But if he does it now, he’d probably get in a lot of trouble—which, for Bertolt and Reiner, doesn’t mean just getting grounded by their parents.

Instead, though, a wretched noise makes itself out of Bertolt’s throat and a few tears track rapidly down his cheeks. He stands up, stumbles toward the exit, and then takes off into an outright sprint.

Now, Reiner just wants to hit the guy himself, but he’s more concerned with following Bertolt.

“You’re a fag, too,” he adds as a parting statement, but Reiner barely hears him. 

“Bertl!” he shouts as he bursts through the main doors. It’s been raining, and everything is quiet and smells clean. It’s just on the cusp of spring going into summer, and then finally, he knows where to look.

He parked his car at the edge of the parking lot, since he’s paranoid about someone denting it—Reiner doesn’t treat having actual personal property lightly—and he runs in that direction.

He’s faster than Bertolt normally, but he lost time trying to figure out where he would’ve gone.

And sure enough, there’s Bertolt in Reiner’s too-large jacket with his crooked tie, outright sobbing into his hands. It’s obvious he’s trying to stop, but just can’t.

“Bertl,” Reiner calls, getting closer. Bertolt just turns away, making horrible little noises as he cries, his voice distorted and hiccupped.

“I can go,” he says through the tears, taking a few steps away, but still leaning on the car, “I’m sorry.”

And it hits Reiner, right then, that even after thinking Reiner wanted to be alone with Christa, and even after being called a very nasty name at his junior prom, the first place he goes is Reiner’s car, as if he’s instinctually drawn to it as a safe harbor.

“Bertl,” Reiner repeats softly, “don’t go.”

He pulls Bertolt back toward him, wrapping both arms around the shaking body, and Bertolt outright sobs into his shoulder.

The last time Bertolt cried like this was over the possibility of Reiner getting shipped off to another county to live in foster care after their summer of running away together.

He rubs his hands over Bertolt’s back, and finally lets himself fall into the feeling—the spike of longing he feels when he traces over Bertolt’s spine and ribs, down to the small of his back, and up over his neck and shoulders.

Reiner can’t stop touching him, and finally, he draws back and tilts Bertolt’s chin up. There are still tears streaming down his face, and Reiner wipes them away with his thumbs.

And then he leans forward to kiss Bertolt, pressing their lips together; he’s expecting to get hit in the face, given how he reacted last time, knowing he really doesn’t deserve a second chance. Instead, Bertolt makes an emotional, needy sound and deepens the kiss.

Bertolt’s arms wrap around Reiner’s neck, and he pushes his entire body forward; Reiner, not having time or thought to feel self-conscious or afraid, just pushes back.

He tangles his fingers in Bertolt’s hair—it’s soft and silky—and then pulls away, fumbling for the car keys in his pocket to unlock the door as they kiss, until finally, he yanks the door handle and the door-ajar alarm starts to beep.

He throws the keys onto the front seat and pushes Bertolt into the car first, slamming the door behind them as he gets on top of him in the backseat.

Bertolt pulls Reiner down to keep kissing, and Reiner moans as he feels Bertolt’s legs wrap around him. The two of them barely fit, but it doesn’t matter; they’ve always made things work for themselves.

Reiner can’t breathe as his mouth hangs open, Bertolt’s hands stretched across his shoulder blades as they move their hips together harshly, groaning and panting. Bertolt is still letting out little shuddery sobs, as if he can’t stop.

“Don’t cry, Bertl,” he whispers, kissing Bertolt’s cheek. 

Bertolt’s grip tightens, and he says in a shuddery voice, “I lied—I do have a crush on you.”

“I lied, too,” Reiner whispers, not able to stop the tears in his own voice. 

They both moan now as Bertolt thrusts his hips up at Reiner and gives a little cry, and the sound goes straight to Reiner’s cock.

They both shudder as they come—the first time Reiner’s ever orgasmed with another person—and then he goes limp on top of Bertolt, just lying there.

Bertolt makes no move to shove him off, and Reiner shuts his eyes. He’s never felt so safe in his life.

When Bertolt’s hand hesitantly comes up to stroke Reiner’s short hair, he finally sighs and grabs Bertolt’s other hand to lace their fingers together.

“Christa’s a lesbian,” he says bluntly.

Even Bertolt seemingly isn’t expecting that, and he starts. _“What?”_

“She asked me to dance because she thought we were together, and she was actually there with her girlfriend.”

“Are you serious?” Bertolt asks in a hushed voice. “ _Christa Lenz_ is gay?”

“I guess,” Reiner says with a shrug. “That’s why I kissed her on the cheek—so guys would stop bothering her.”

Bertolt is silent for a moment, before he says quietly, “So... you don’t want to make out with her in your car?”

“Bertl,” Reiner says softly, meaning his next statement to come out as a joke, but it doesn’t completely, “I think we both know who I want to make out with in my car.”

“Oh,” Bertolt whispers.

There’s a short silence, and then Reiner adds, very quietly, “Our car.”

“Okay,” Bertolt says in an even quieter voice. “After we age out, I’d live in this car.”

“Bertl, you can barely fit in it.”

“Not if you folded down the seats and—”

“No way.”

The truth is, though, is that Reiner doesn’t care what happens, as long as Bertolt is with him—they could live in a car or they could live in a palace.

All that matters is that they’re together—always “we.”


End file.
